


Threnody

by rei_c



Series: Fundamental Image 'verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-12
Updated: 2006-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a good friend’s death, will Sam recover enough to keep hunting, or will he lose himself in grief and fear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atum

**Author's Note:**

> S1 spoilers, all the way through, as well as spoilers for 2x01. Run-on sentences. Vaguely out-of-context reference to the Heliopolis Ennead. Any and all errors relative to established SPN-canon, the Rock Springs area, _One Thousand and One Nights_ , Islamic, Persian, and Hebrew mysticism, and/or anything else spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.

Sam opens his eyes and whispers, “Dean. I’m awake.” His voice is rough, like it hasn’t been used in a while or like he’s been screaming for hours. He’s not sure which is more likely at this point, doesn’t think he cares, not when Dean’s running fingers along Sam’s cheeks, eyes piercing as if Sam might be lying. “Sammy,” Dean breathes, and it’s barely audible, but to Sam, it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “I’m awake,” Sam says, again, and then he reaches up and tangles one of his hands in one of Dean’s, closes his eyes. “Sam?” Dean says, louder than a whisper this time, and panic threading his voice, and Sam’s eyes blink open, almost lazily, as he says, “I’m so tired, Dean.” 

Dean shakes his head, swims in Sam’s vision, says, “You need to stay awake until Missouri gets back,” and Sam hears Dean check himself rather than seeing it, before Dean asks, haltingly, “She will be coming back, Sam. Her and Jeannie will be back. Right?” Sam flinches, tries to bury himself in the blankets, because he knows what he did, came so close to killing them both, and nods, seeing Dean relax a fraction. “Sam,” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, feeling his entire body throb with pain and ache with loss, and he interrupts his brother, says, “Dean. Talk to me. Tell me something. I’ll stay awake, I promise,” and closes his eyes again. The world here is too bright, too painful, and he feels disconnected, like he doesn’t belong here and can’t understand why, adrift without map or anchor. But then Dean starts speaking, something random from when they were children, and Sam clings to the only thing that makes sense, letting his mind float to the cadence of Dean’s voice. 

\--

He feels the vibrations later, how much later he’s not sure, but Dean’s been talking the whole time and now Dean’s voice sounds as rough as Sam’s. After the vibrations of two pairs of feet on the steps, there’s silence, and then the door creaks open and Dean stops talking. Sam opens his eyes, sees the world as an ocean of indistinct blurriness, and closes his eyes as a cool hand touches his forehead. He can’t hold back the hiss, it hurts, doesn’t feel right, and he doesn’t so much relax as stop fighting when the hand moves away and another takes it’s place. 

This palm is warm, these fingers callused, and the touch makes Sam think of smoke, or the smell of a fire just extinguished, lingering in the air. “Jeannie,” he murmurs, and she coos, low and soft and gentle, running her hand through his hair. “Hush now, Sam,” she says, and Sam can feel that the other people in the room, Missouri and Jeannie and Dean, are talking, silently, about him, but he doesn’t care, he’s exhausted, wrung out and lost. “You get some rest, now that you’re back with us.” Sam tries to nod but the motion hurts, so he stops with a choked-off whimper, and just gives in. 

\--

His fire’s restless, searching for something, as Sam sinks into it. No, he realises, after a moment or an hour of thought, not something, someone. Liz. His complement, his fault that he can’t find her anymore. He killed her, killed his friend; the person he thought of as a little sister is gone and it’s all his fault. 

Sam wakes out of sleep already gagging and Dean’s there with a bucket, waiting. Sam heaves but nothing comes up, just air, and soon Dean’s pushing him back down, wearing a worried expression that makes the circles under Dean’s eyes look like bruises. “Can you get back to sleep?” Dean asks, putting the bucket on the floor, leaning forward to study Sam, who shakes his head. How can he want to sleep, how can he still be alive, after sentencing Liz to death, and he’s almost back to hyperventilating when Dean takes a hold of Sam’s wrist, pressing his thumb in the groove between Sam’s bones until it hurts. 

Sam looks at Dean with wild eyes, he knows, but all Dean says is “You need rest, Sam. Once you’re a little more with it, we’ll talk. Until then, Jeannie left a cup of tea for you. She said it’ll help.” Sam doesn’t fight when Dean lifts the mug to Sam’s lips and holds it there while Sam swallows, and he lets Dean push him down, tuck him in, reaches for Dean. “Sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, letting Sam hold his hand, and so Sam does. 

\--

He wakes up slowly this time, numb and groggy, his eyes crusted shut and his skin feeling as if it’s stretched too tight over his body. Sam blinks, rubs his eyes and takes in the room for the first time since he came out of his psychic trance. It’s not a room he recognises, wide and airy, decorated in reds and golds. He’s in a single bed near the window, which is open, and Dean’s in another bed on the other side of the night-table and closer to the door. Except for a basket filled with angelica leaves, a desk and chair, and a wardrobe, the room’s empty. No, nearly empty, Sam thinks, as he studies the walls. All of the paintings on the walls are of fire, flames, and three dream-catchers, one each in red, orange, and yellow, are hanging on the wall above the headboard. The orange and yellow ones are burned out, the outer frames singed, the inner threads frayed and disintegrating. The red one looks fine, though, and Sam’s a little disoriented because he feels so at home here, like he belongs in a way that makes him think of Liz. 

He can’t stop the sharp breath he inhales after that thought, then wants to kick himself when Dean opens his eyes, instantly focused on Sam. “You sleep?” Dean asks, question punctuated by a yawn, pulling his hand out from under the pillow, and Sam nods, asks, “Where are we?” Dean sits up, swings his legs over the edge of his bed, facing Sam, as he replies, “I called Missouri when we left. She told me to meet her here. It’s some sort of place for psychics; Jeannie runs it. Wyoming,” Dean adds. “Closer than Kansas. She’s gone back home, now that you’re awake.”

Sam nods, trying to focus, but all he can think of is Liz, leaving her to die, leaving her for Karta, killing her, and he rubs his eyes again, hair falling over his face. He should have offered himself instead of Liz, he should been able to find a way around that contract, he’s an awful human being who doesn’t deserve to live. He can’t stop the tears from springing up, but he holds them back, won’t let them spill. He’ll never go back to Palo Alto again, he promises himself this, never again, because people there, people he loves, they _die_ , again and again, and if he has to watch another one be taken right in front of his eyes, he’s going to lose it for good. “Hey, Sam,” Dean says, snapping his fingers right in front of Sam’s eyes, and since when can Dean move that quietly around him? “Sam, talk to me,” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and doesn’t talk for the next four days. 

\--

He spends a lot of time sleeping; he spent three days in the psychic plane, but a trance-state isn’t the same thing as rest. Every time he wakes up, he thinks the dream-catchers have been changed along with the basket of angelica but he’s not sure. Sam doesn’t want to eat, he’s not hungry at all, but Dean, usually, or Jeannie, occasionally, forces soup down his throat, and it finally stays down on the third day. He passes a lot of the time he’s conscious in thought, replaying his conversation with Karta, trying to think of a way around the contract and her insistence, and comes up with a few things that may have worked, he’ll never know. 

Sometimes Dean leaves, and Sam can’t stop himself from worrying, from letting panic seep into his thoughts, as if something might happen and Dean might leave him. Dean always comes back, though, and Sam can’t help needing to touch his brother, needing physical confirmation that he’s not seeing things, that Dean’s there and safe. Other times, he rubs his chest, feeling the thread-edges of the scar from Adam, which is still terrifying but somehow paling in comparison to what he himself has just done. Maybe Adam was right, maybe Sam is a monster, something that needs to be put down before he can hurt anything or anyone else. If he can surrender one of his best friends in the world to the first so-called goddess that comes around, if he’s willing and halfway to destroying two mentors, what else is he capable of? 

On the fourth day, after Jeannie’s poured another bowl of broth down Sam’s throat and left without a backwards glance, Dean stands at the foot of the bed and starts talking. “This needs to stop, Sam,” Dean says, and when Sam just looks at Dean, the expression, _Are you crazy?_ written on his face, Dean sighs, then says, “Fine. At least tell me what happened, because I still can’t figure it all out. I know she pulled you into the astral and you two talked or whatever it is a psychic and goddess do there, and I know that the ice and the cats were related to that bitch, but Sam, what _happened_?” Sam looks away, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. “Don’t do that, Sam,” Dean says, voice a tone of warning, and Sam sees movement out of the corner of his eyes. 

He turns in time to see Dean pull the covers off of the bed and feels Dean grab his ankles and yank. Sam slides off the bed and hits the floor, is up and trying to defend himself an instant later, Dean attacking him with fists and feet. They bang around the room, kicking and punching, not sparring but actually fighting, and after a minute, Sam’s not sure who he’s fighting or what, just that he can’t do this anymore. Dean tackles him and they both go down, the back of Sam’s head hitting the floor with enough force to knock one of the dream-catchers off the wall. It thumps behind him, falling between the wall and the bed, and Dean’s straddling him, pinning Sam’s wrists to the floor. It hurts, his head, his heart, the way Dean’s looking at him, and he can’t stop the words bubbling up out of his throat, all the things he’s been thinking and dreaming of the past few days. “It’s my fault,” he says. “She’s dead because of me, you almost died because of me, I didn’t think fast enough and I fucked everything up,” and that breaks a dam holding back words and prayers and tears. 

Sam’s not sure when Dean lets go of his wrists, but the fingers stroking his cheek help, calm the mad tumble of speech, and when he shudders, drawing a breath wracked with guilt and self-recrimination, Dean finally gets off of him and pushes Sam to sit up. “Jeannie said there’s a priest around here who knows about,” Dean trails off, then says, “He’ll come here if you want him to.” Sam thinks about that, then says, “I’d rather go to him. I just, I need to get out of here.” Dean doesn’t argue, just helps Sam out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. When he’s alone, Sam looks at his reflection in the mirror, gingerly touching the sore spots that’ll be blossoms of blue and purple by tonight, and wonders if the face he’s looking at is the face of a murderer.

\--

The drive to the church doesn’t take long and Sam’s too wrapped up in his thoughts to take any notice of the scenery flashing past them. Dean’s quiet as well, the radio off, and the silence only serves to heighten Sam’s sense of self-loathing, makes him more sensitive to the palpable sense of worry that’s emanating from Dean’s direction. It’s eerily similar to the drive to the mission in San Xavier, and when Dean pulls up in front of this church, here in Wyoming, Sam sees desert and old Franciscan stucco for the span of a blink. He’s almost ready to tell Dean to leave him, that Dean’s only in more danger being around Sam, but Dean turns the car off. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” Dean says, and then pulls out a couple of old magazines, settling into the seat. The set of Dean’s jaw dares Sam to protest, so Sam gets out of the Impala with a pained nod and walks into the church. 

He crosses himself with Holy Water, the droplets hissing in steam when they touch his skin, and he finds a pew to the side of the church, pulling out the kneeler and settling, shifting his weight onto his heels as he closes his eyes. He skips his normal litany of prayers and begins immediately with the _Prex Manasse_ , the Latin slipping out soft and fearful, as if he thinks that God will turn away despite perfect forgiveness. “ _Peccavi, Domine, peccavi_ ,” he murmurs, when the _Prex_ has been recited three times; “ _peccavi, remitte mihi, Domine_.” He’s rocking back and forth, hands clasped together so tightly that they’ve lost feeling, eyes clenched shut and head turned down, and even as he moves on to the seven penitential psalms, it runs like a heartbeat in his head. _Remitte mihi, remitte mihi._

Sam recites the Confiteor out loud as well, words falling into some great abyss he can’t see but knows is right in front of him, sliding into the preparatory prayers before he goes into Confession. When he does, finally, stand up, he sways, dizzy, and makes his way to the small confessional, dropping to his knees on the prie-dieu inside. He breathes in silence and calm, eyes fixed on the crucifix hanging above, and when he’s gathered his resolve and made the Sign of the Cross, he says, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. I have missed Mass the last three weeks, and,” he pauses, clasps his hands tighter, continues on, “I have committed murder, both in my thoughts and in my actions. I have lied and taken the Lord’s name in vain, and given in to pride and anger. All these I have done with full knowledge and deliberate consent, and I am sorry for these and all of my sins.”

The father is silent for a long moment, one which stretches out, and Sam’s heart misses a beat when the priest clears his throat. “I’ve not heard a confession like this in some time, my child,” he says, before asking gently, “These murders. Tell me about them.” Sam doesn’t know how to describe it, how to get across the terror of what happened and how he feels now, so he starts talking. This is different than talking to Dean, has a different purpose behind it, and Sam’s mindful of that even as he tells the priest about Liz, about the choice he made. “And when I realised she was gone, when my gift realised,” he says then, stumbling over words, “I went to the psychic plane. Fled, really. I couldn’t, couldn’t deal with it.” Sam looks down and the priest makes an encouraging noise, so Sam inhales deeply and carries on. “I have power, a lot of it, and when I was in the plane, I let it spread out. Some of the others, they tried to stop me, to help, and I just, I wasn’t thinking,” he says, struck again by the horror of what he’d done. “What happened?” the priest asks, and Sam’s choking on the words. “I swatted at them with my power, as if they were flies. I burnt out their gifts, all the ones who tried to help, and some of them lost their minds. A couple died,” he says in a whispered mixture of grief and anger. 

\--

Sam emerges from the church two hours later, feeling steadier but not by much. He’s been absolved, shriven, but it doesn’t help much, for the first time that he can remember in a long time. Instead, he feels scarred, like the evidence of Adam’s spell on his chest has a similar echo on his gift, a wound from having killed Liz. He shivers, though it’s not exactly cold, and walks to the Impala. Dean’s slumped inside, shades on and magazines forgotten, leaning against the window with his lips parted and snoring. It’s so _Dean_ that Sam can’t help but smile, feeling like he’s just taken three steps away from a cliff’s edge, as he walks around to the driver’s side and taps on the window. Dean wakes up instantly, looking at Sam, watching as Sam walks back to the passenger side and slips in, and once the door’s closed and Sam’s buckled up, Dean asks, cautiously, “Better?” Sam says, “Enough for now. Can we not go back to the house yet?” and Dean’s definitely giving Sam a look, but he just turns the car on and says, “Yeah, sure. There’s a diner downtown. They say the coffee’s halfway decent.”


	2. Shu

They’re in a small town called Reliance, just north of Rock Springs on 17, and this time Sam studies the landscape on the ride, taking in the specks of trees, the desert plateau, the clear blue sky. Dean keeps looking at him but Sam doesn’t say anything, not until they sit down and get their coffees, as well as two pieces of the day’s pie. The waitress is older, maybe grandmother-age, and tells them to enjoy the snack before going into the kitchen, out of sight, leaving them alone. Dean takes a bite of his pie and then pins Sam with a look that says, _So we’re here. Talk_. Sam’s been trying to gather his thoughts, figure out where and how to start, and he almost wishes he could just write an essay instead of talking about this, but he knows that’s not the Winchester way, so he takes a sip of the coffee and wraps his hands around the cup.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and Dean immediately asks, “For what?” Sam shakes his head, says, “Please, just let me,” and Dean nods, leans back and gestures with his fork for Sam to continue. “I should have listened to you back there. The invocation might’ve been enough to pull Karta out of the plane, and then. I should’ve thought harder. The second time, in the astral, I should’ve tried harder,” and when Dean leans forward, Sam says, with more feeling he’s had about nearly anything since he woke, “I know, Dean. No second guesses, right? Go with what we can, what we have to, to stay alive, right? Dad’s rule, and yeah, Dean, I did. But Liz is dead now, because of me. Just listen,” he says, stopping Dean again. 

His brother’s the slightest bit amused, Sam can tell, and maybe he’ll be able to see the humour in this later, but now, he just feels empty. “Liz’s ancestors, back in Latvia, they made a deal with Karta—and she _was_ a witch, not a goddess. Any girl born with necromantic abilities from that village belongs to her. Somehow she transfers the life force of the child to herself and, in return, she protects the village. There was a contract, done in the old style, and you know we haven’t found a way ‘round those yet, but when it took her mother, the demon somehow suppressed Liz’s power, so Karta didn’t know. Else she would have come for Liz before that, probably around the same time the demon did.”

He stops, can’t say anymore, and Dean raises an eyebrow, silently asking if it’s all right to speak now. Sam nods, and then wishes he hadn’t; people underestimate Dean, assume he’s a gung-ho soldier and nothing more, without a mind of his own, and sometimes, always in the worst times, Sam falls into that trap, too. “You talked to Karta in the astral. She offered to take me instead of Liz.” When Sam stares, as if his world has bottomed out, Dean snorts and says, “Give me some credit, Sam. The ice didn’t start coming for me until after you went back in, and as soon as you woke up, you looked at me and her, then the ice took her. You chose the contract, not the bargain.” Sam looks down, shakes his head, and says, “I chose who would die. It’s my fault Liz is dead.”

“Yeah, well it’s your fault I’m alive. Can’t say I’m too upset with that,” Dean says. “Don’t get me wrong, Sam: for a necromancer, Liz was all right, but you have to focus on the living, on what you still have. Who’s still here.” Sam sighs after a moment, hearing an echo of the talks Dean gave him after Jess died, nods and looks away, eyes tracing the pattern on the bar across the room. “Sam,” Dean says sharply, and Sam jumps, the mug in his hands tilting and then falling, coffee spilling everywhere, burning him. The waitress comes out, clucks her tongue, and sops up the mess, pouring Sam another cup of coffee and saying, “Y’look like a few hours sleep might do you some good.” Sam smiles wanly, replies, “Believe me, I agree.”

\--

 

He sleeps and floats on fire, gently tossed by the ebbs and flows and waves of flame heating his skin. He sighs, burrows into the warmth, and his eyes here open wide when he falls through, keeps falling, doesn’t stop until—

 _Ice, ice everywhere, ice and snow and he’s buried in it, frozen, numb. It isn’t so bad, feels like how things should be, cold and dying, lost and alone, but then he hears the howls, hears paws scrabbling over the snow, and a voice asking, “Who will you bargain with now, hmm?” The voice holds echoes of Karta, echoes of Adam, and it’s connected to a body drawing frozen fingers down his chest, nails catching on his skin and scratching out blood. The coyotes are there a moment later, fighting over the blood steaming in the icy air, then ripping into him, tearing him apart, and all he feels is pain and relief and cold, numb to everything else as he screams and screams and_ —

He blinks, turning in confusion, seeing fire and nothing else. He frowns, then shrugs and relaxes, settling into the flames, resting while he can, trying to thaw the feeling back into his heart.

\--

Sam wakes up with a twitch, his nose itching, and he bats at the air, hearing a snicker as he does. The itch stops for a second or two, but then comes back, and Sam scrunches his nose and frowns, batting again. The snicker is louder this time, and when the itch returns for a third time, Sam opens his eyes and sees Dean tickling his face with one of the angelica leaves. “Not fair,” he groans, and pulls the pillow out from under his head, planting it over his face. “If you don’t get up, Sam, swear to God I have a bucket of water and I’m going to use it if you’re not glaring at me by the time I count to five.” Sam’s not too sure about this, whether Dean has a bucket or not, and whether Dean would actually use it or not, but if there’s one thing Sam’s never forgotten, it’s that Dean can make waking up absolutely hellish. By the time Dean says, “Four, Sam, and it might be summer, but there’s a lot of ice in this,” Sam peeks out from under the pillow, dry and bloodshot eyes glaring at his brother. “Morning, sunshine,” Dean says, and snaps a picture. 

That gets Sam moving and he stalks through his morning routine with a kind of wounded grace. His body aches, he has hazy memories of a dream, and he’s not as warm as he usually is, turning the hot water in the shower up even warmer than normal. He feels jittery and anxious like something might be coming, and he catches himself looking over his shoulder more than once as he makes his way down two flights of stairs and through wide hallways to the kitchen, pausing in the doorstep. 

It’s almost a familiar scene, two people sitting at the table, waiting for him, red candle lit and flickering, but instead of Missouri and Jeannie, its Jeannie and Dean, and there’s a box on the table as well. Sam walks in, wary shivers running up and down his spine, and sits down across from his mentor and his brother, eyes darting to the box as if he expects the lid to fly off at any moment. He waits for one of them to speak first, and Jeannie caves before Dean does. 

She pushes the box over to Sam and says, “Open it,” tone curiously, forcedly, empty. He looks at Dean, who’s still just sitting there, arms folded, silent, completely opposite from the laughing brother who woke him up earlier, and then takes the lid off, eyes glancing over burnt pieces of wood, shattered ceramic, singed nylon thread, misshapen lumps of metal. He’s obviously missing something, so he looks back up at Jeannie, who licks her lips, a nervous habit he remembers from Lawrence, before saying, “They’re dream-catchers, Sam, the ones we’ve had in your room the past week.” She pauses, looks at Dean, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of Sam, then goes on. “You’re burning up three a night. Last night we had to replace them while you slept. It isn’t a manifestation of your gift and it’s not something supernatural, it’s your nightmares being strong enough to fight the charms and overpower the spells. Your dreams, Sam, aren’t something you’re going to be able to ignore much longer, not without repercussions.” 

Sam wonders what Dean’s told Jeannie, if he said anything about the times Sam didn’t use the dream-catcher after San Xavier and woke up screaming, thrashing, everything in the room spinning in mid-air, or if Dean told her that Sam can’t sleep with weapons in arm’s reach for fear of using knives or guns in a dream-induced panic, or if Dean mentioned the time Sam clawed a rune of protection into his own chest, in his sleep, and woke up with fingers slippery and crimson. Sam gives Jeannie a look that might mean, _Okay, so?_ just as much as it might mean _Please, help me_ , and she sighs, fingers tracing out grooves gouged into the table. “I wish I could just have someone come and talk to you about them, but it’s past that now. You’ve ignored them for too long. You have a choice, Sam: either you talk to us about them, and what’s caused them, in complete honesty, or you let someone share your dreams until they even out a little.”

Sam can’t stop his lip from curling, just like he can’t quite hide the hurt he knows is in his eyes, because both of those options _suck_ and they know it. He took Intro to Psych, he knows that dreams are the subconscious’ way of sorting things out, and he’s about ready to protest their limited options when he realises that he can’t work out any issues through his dreams if they’re getting caught in the dream-catchers. Well, fuck. “Let me sleep without the catchers,” Sam says, “see if they’ll work themselves out.” Jeannie and Dean exchange a glance, and Sam can’t decide whether to be offended that they’re treating him like a child, giving him ultimatums, or inordinately touched that they’re this concerned. 

“Fine,” Dean says, the first word he’s spoken since Sam entered the kitchen. “We’ll see how it goes. If not, you’ll have to decide, got it?” Sam nods, says, “Got it,” and Dean stands up, smiles. “Come on, geekboy. You need to get in shape, spent too much time lying around,” and as Sam follows Dean out of the kitchen, arguing with his brother, he sees Jeannine blow out the candle, hovering over it with a pinched, worried look on her face.


	3. Tefnut

Sam’s never been so relieved to sit down for a meal before, though the smell of meat makes his stomach start gurgling in protest. Thankfully, Jeannie places a large bowl of salad in front of him, various greens mixed with fruits and nuts, and he doesn’t have to look all that much at Dean’s steak. After Dean’s started eating and told Jeannie that he’d gladly marry her for her cooking. Jeannie asks, “Was it a productive day for you two?” Sam snorts and then takes a bite of lettuce and arugula when Dean looks at him, raising an eyebrow in innocent protest. Dean rolls his eyes and says, “We’re getting Sam back into shape. Went for a run, worked on the forms, did some sparring,” and Sam can’t believe that his brother is just as good at making physical torture sound reasonable as their father was. 

He hasn’t fought as hard since the werewolves, before they went to Tucson, and he can still feel the pull on his new scar, across his chest, new bruises littering his body and mixing with the old. It’ll take time to get used to it, four weeks of recovering from the blood loss and getting back into good enough physical condition wasn’t much of an allowance, not when he’d been so close to death, to burning out his power and body both, and then a week and a half practically without moving really didn’t help. He knows Dean’s only trying to help, to keep him, them, both alive, but he thought he saw panicked urgency in Dean’s eyes, in the grass behind Jeannie’s house, and still doesn’t know the reason for it or even if he imagined it. 

Jeannie looks between them and decides not to press the issue, merely takes a sip of her water and says, “Ellen called today.” Dean and Sam look at each other, then Dean says, “Oh?” inviting Jeannie to expand. Sam thinks for a moment that she won’t, but then she says, “Apparently she has a lead, if either of you ever thought about answering your phones.” Sam looks at Dean again, who raises an eyebrow and then asks, “Did she say anything about,” stopping when Jeannie starts shaking her head. “Us psychics are a close-lipped group. Until Sam tells us it’s all right, we aren’t saying a thing about, well, anything.” Sam feels a rush of gratitude that doesn’t dissipate, not even when Dean shovels the rest of his dinner into his mouth and excuses himself, disappearing in the direction of the stairs.

\--

It does, however, give way to apprehension when Sam goes up to bed a few hours later, after the words of an ancient Greek text have started to blur in his vision. He was ready for sleep before that, but put it off for as long as possible; now, standing in the doorway, Dean looking up from a set of maps and Dad’s journal, Sam thinks maybe he can put it off longer with all of the sudden adrenaline flooding his system. “Hermetics still boring as hell?” Dean asks, startling Sam out of his thoughts, and Sam walks over to the bed, gets his pyjamas, and says, “Fascinating actually. It’s the damn Greek giving me a headache,” eyes fixed on the blank wall above the bed, the cracked and discoloured paint. “I’ll put this stuff away,” Dean says as Sam’s heading for the bathroom, and Sam’s grateful he’s getting ready to brush his teeth, because his mouth has gone dry. 

After flushing the toilet and washing his hands, Sam looks in the mirror, pokes and prods the bruises on his face, his chest. The scar from Adam stands out in stark relief against his tan, pulled white threads fading into him, becoming a part of him, and as one finger goes up to trace the biggest, roughest line, he stops, forces his hand to the sink, turns away from the mirror and the vivid memory of the stench of death. His hand shakes as he squeezes toothpaste onto the brush, shakes as he cleans his teeth, shakes as he washes his face, and he really, really doesn’t want to go to bed. 

When he can’t hide in the bathroom any longer, he pads back to the bedroom. Dean’s in his bed, checking the gun’s safety before sliding it under the pillow, and once Sam’s slipped under the blankets of his own bed, Dean turns the light off. “Sweet dreams,” Dean says after a minute, and Sam snorts. “Yeah. Right. You too,” he mutters, and turns on his side, stares out the window. Sleep doesn’t come quickly, but it does come hard. 

\--

_In the desert, alone, empty but for sand and snow falling like crystal from the sky. When he looks down, he sees his feet frozen in a block of ice carved into a pile of cats, their teeth digging into his ankles, ready to bite off his toes. Sand blows in the wind though the snow falls straight down, and faces form in both, shifting too fast to make out until they embody Adam’s face and Adam leers, steps out of the breeze, holding a pair of matreshki. “Hurt you,” Adam says, and the cats come alive, swarming him, toppling him, taking little bites out of his skin as Adam leans over and whispers, “Hunt you.” The wind brings the sound of coyotes, and then they’re there as well, ripping him apart, coyotes and cats eating him and all he can do is let them, scream and lay there. It’s so painful, but Adam says, “Kill you. It’s nothing more than you deserve,” and Adam’s right, so he doesn’t beg, just screams and sobs as he’s eaten and torn, looked at and laughed at, caught in the rips and tears and his blood’s staining sand and snow alike, thick, viscous red._

\--

“—Sam, wake the fuck up! _Now_!” He obeys with a gasp, muscles locking in place, eyes opening, letting everything stop. “Sam?” he hears, and then Dean steps into his line of vision, slow and cautious, and Sam nods once, just as slowly, feeling like he might throw up. “Dhambala save,” someone else says, and Dean motions at them, whoever it is, without taking his eyes off of Sam. “Sammy, I need you to focus now, all right?” Dean asks, and Sam nods again, body loosening with a conscious command. There’s a ringing echo on the floor and Sam looks down, sees his knife and gives it a puzzled look, which deepens when his eyes pick out drops and smears of red, the latter on the knife, the former on the floor. “Sam, look at me,” Dean orders, and Sam looks up, focusing on his brother, who gives Sam an approving nod. “Good. Now, I need you to focus. Try and bring your power back under control. Can you do that for me, Sam?” Sam stares at Dean for a long moment before he blinks slowly and then nods. His skull is humming and as he stands there, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest, he starts pulling his power back into him, locking it up tight. It doesn’t need to be out, not with Dean there, here, but when he goes to shut up the last speck, he hears a howl and loses it, loses time, loses himself. 

His body is heavy and weightless, floating and sinking at the same time, and his power is spread through the room, everything floating and spinning. He’s inhabiting his power, sees things happen as if he’s outside of his body, watching as he picks up the knife, as Dean backs away, as Jeannie shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” she says, looking at his power like it’s a tangible thing, and then she murmurs some Creole and he’s jammed back into his body, bound to the physical. He screams, it hurts, hurts so much, too much, and he’s so caught in the pain that he doesn’t see the blow that turns his world black and knocks him unconscious.


	4. Geb

Everything hurts when Sam comes to, but the longer he lies there, the more awake he gets, he realises that the worst of the pain’s not everywhere. His hands pound in time with his head and his chest throbs. Everything else aches, a generic, general ache he’s going to attribute to the sparring he and Dean did—yesterday? That gets him to open his eyes, try and figure out what he’s doing, where he is, what day it is. There are bandages around his hands, and, when he peels them back, he sees thin scratches over his palms, shallow markings in the shape of pentagrams. 

Sam frowns and looks up, around, resisting for now the need to make sure Dean’s all right, to touch Dean and see for himself. Dean’s asleep, propped up against the wall with his head lolling at an uncomfortable-looking angle. Sam tries to study his brother without waking him up; from what he can see, Dean has a bruise on the side of his forehead and a long, clean cut on his left arm, looks exhausted even though he’s sleeping, and Sam sits in bed, silent, until Dean wakes up minutes or hours later. 

Dean looks at him first, before anything else, and freezes when he sees Sam looking back. “You’re gonna be stiff,” Sam says, trying to gauge Dean’s mood, and he’s not surprised when Dean rolls his neck and shrugs, stands up and sits down on the edge of Sam’s bed, crossing the room in long, awkward strides. “What do you remember?” Dean says, and Sam frowns, opens his mouth and then shuts it again, quizzical look on his face. “You had a nightmare,” Dean explains, “and started vibing everywhere . D’you remember?” Sam shakes his head, then pauses, vague and blurry memories shoving to the front of his mind. Dark room, panicked Dean, Jeannie apologising, but it’s not solid, just snapshot freeze-frames of images, and he reaches out and touches the bruise on Dean’s temple. 

“I did that?” Sam asks, and Dean breathes out from between his teeth and looks away. It’s answer enough for Sam, and so he pushes the blankets off, stands up and waits for the room to stop spinning before heading for the door. Dean catches up to him, grabs his shoulder, and asks, “Where’re you going?” but Sam shrugs him off and goes to find Jeannie, Dean right behind him. 

\--

“You’re serious?” she asks, not for the first time, and Sam nearly growls before he can calm himself. “I’ll do whatever I have to,” Sam says, again. “Anything and everything I need to, so that what happened last night never happens again.” Jeannie’s eyes flick to Dean, one step behind and to the right of Sam, and then nods, looking back at Sam. “All right. Tomorrow, we’ll,” she says, before Sam cuts her off. “Now. We start now,” and he knows he’s using that tone of voice most associated with preparation, with focus and ruthlessness, but when she swallows and nods, he can’t find it in himself to be sorry. 

They all sit down at the kitchen table, though this time Dean’s solid and silent next to Sam, not across from him. “I think, Sam,” Jeannie says, “that the best thing would be to link your dreams with someone else,” and Sam doesn’t like that idea at all, but he could have _killed_ Dean last night, so he nods and says, “Fine. Can you do that, around the visions, or do I have to find someone else?” Jeannie gives him this half-smile, says, “I can do it, but who are you going to share dreams with?” and before Sam can say anything, Dean says, “Me.” This is a bad idea for so many reasons that Sam opens his mouth to disagree, but Dean says, “No, Sam. I sleep in the same room as you. I was there, I’ve been there. I’m doing this.” Sam wants to say no, knows enough about his dreams to say that Dean shouldn’t have to see Adam the way Sam sees him, that he doesn’t want to freak Dean out or let Dean see how weak Sam really is, but Dean’s looking at him, bruise marring his face, so Sam swallows and nods, looks back at Jeannie. 

“Dean’ll do it,” he says, not so sure or strong, but still insistent, and she tells them what to expect, what might happen, before filling two plastic cups with tea. Sam drinks his, grimacing at the bitter taste, the sludge of chicory and peppermint at the bottom, rosemary and cinnamon floating on top, and when he’s done, he drops the cup, letting it bounce on the floor. There’s a hole in his mind, tunnelling through his power and then deeper, and he feels naked and in a curious state of itchy awareness until Dean finishes his cup by saying, “That has be to some of the whoa—” Sam feels it then, like a key being fit into a lock, a snap as Dean connects to some deep, primal part of him. He can’t sense more than that, it’s a one-way connection straight into his subconscious, but he’s aware that Dean’s _there_ , seeing him, feeling him. 

“Holy shit,” Dean mutters, blinking and rubbing his eyes, and Jeannie laughs. “It’ll get better when his mind calms,” she says, and Sam doesn’t blame his brother for narrowing his eyes, because that laugh wasn’t altogether innocent, was much too amused. “Better, how?” Dean asks, cautious, scratching his head, and Sam thinks the action is more related to this new connection than nervousness, but when Jeannie says, “Oh, you’ll see,” Sam forgets it, winces. “Let me guess. Breathing,” he says, nose-scrunch of distaste, and Jeannie’s only answer is a smile. 

\--

Sam sits in the living room for hours, cross-legged and on the floor, eyes trained on the fireplace and the flames dancing inside of it. His eyes are burning by the time lunch rolls around, but he’s calmer, managed to heat up his self-disgust into something like resolve, his hunger and need swallowed into the heat radiating from his bones. He’s bringing his power back under control, taking it deeper inside of him with every breath, digging out new and better-protected channels for it to swim inside of. He stands up and stretches, scratching his stomach as his shirt rides up, then turns around and jumps when he sees Dean. His brother’s in the doorway, hovering, there’s really no other word for it, and wearing a look on his face that Sam can’t readily decipher. “What,” Sam says, defensive, and Dean blinks, shakes his head. “Nothing. Lunchtime. You hungry?” Sam frowns, but before he can think to challenge his brother’s answers, Dean’s turned away. 

Lunch is a quiet affair, Sam and Dean fending for themselves and making do with lunchmeat, bread, and half a head of lettuce. Sam doesn’t feel like cooking and Dean seems more inclined to stare at him than eat, so they sit and somehow manage sandwiches for both and a small salad for Sam. The constant gaze makes Sam irritable, puts him on edge, and he finally says, “Have I got antennae or something? Horns?” One corner of Dean’s mouth quirks in the imitation of a half-smile, and he says, dismissively, “Maybe I just think you should get your hair cut. Ever consider that?” and Sam tilts his head, says, “What, getting a haircut? I do get it cut, Dean,” but his brother’s shaking his head. “Not a trim, a _cut_ ,” and this whole conversation is so not what Sam was expecting that he just laughs and says, “Maybe when I need a change, but I like it.” Dean opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then he shakes his head and asks, “More breathing this afternoon?” Sam groans at the thought, looks out of the window and says, “Maybe the forms. Would you,” and Dean’s smile turns a little more genuine, a little less forced. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

\--

_A howl behind him and he doesn’t need to look before he starts running. The ground beneath his feet is ice and when he pauses to look between the trees, to choose a path to run, the ice grows upwards, covering his toes and trying to swallow his feet. He moves and the ice crackles off, each piece turning into a cat, the nipping noise of their teeth encapsulating laughter. He runs and feels the cats and coyotes following, hunting him. “Hurt you,” the wind sighs, and it’s Adam, Adam in the direction he’s running, Adam everywhere he looks, Adam and the shade of a witch masquerading as a goddess. “Kill you,” the faces say; “Kill you,” the ice snaps; “Kill you,” the trees howl. He runs and screams and the darkness swallows him whole._

\--

Sam opens his eyes and breathes, toes curling into warm blankets, layers and layers of them covering him, pressing down on him. It should be stifling, but it’s actually comforting, warm. It’s the first dream he remembers in full, but its unlocked memories of others and they’re rushing through his mind, and he thinks that maybe Jeannie was right, relying on the dream-catchers for so long was a bigger mistake than he’d thought. He sits up, scoots back so he can lean against the headboard, and he pulls the blankets up with him, fingers tangling in fringed quilts and soft mink. The curtains are open and the sky outside is dark but spotted with stars, waning moon lighting up the sky. 

“Are they always like that?” he hears, and Sam looks into the corner of the room, where Dean’s straddling a chair, blanket around his shoulders. Sam thinks, more and more of the dreams coming back to him, and shakes his head slowly, plays with the top quilt’s fringe. He’s tired, off-balance, and always found it easier to talk about things in the middle of the night, like darkness is its own confessional, has its own redemptive grace, pulling secrets from him. “Worse, I think,” he says, and then adds, head aching, “I didn’t get eaten alive this time.” Sam doesn’t look at Dean, who simply makes a noise and shifts in the chair, letting a few minutes pass by before asking, “And Adam. He’s in all of them?” 

It’s Sam’s turn to hum agreement and Dean clears his throat, says, “You never told me what happened that night,” in a wary tone of voice that tells Sam it’s all right to not say anything if he doesn’t want to. Sam considers it, considers it long enough that Dean stops looking at him. “I followed a vision to the building and he surprised me. Flung some kind of spell at me, left me tied to a pole. We had a chat, then he started carving, there’s not much to tell,” Sam says, mentally making an effort to leave his hands curled in the blankets, not move to rub his chest, reassure himself that he’s healed, not bleeding, alive, not dying. It’s obvious that Dean doesn’t believe him, not from the way he scoffs, not when he says, “What did he tell you, about him and me?” 

Sam looks over at his brother, studied indifference and scientific curiosity in his brother’s posture, hurt and anger in Dean’s eyes. “He didn’t say anything. Just that once I was dead, he’d go back and fuck you. Or let you fuck him, he wasn’t specific.” Dean tenses, Sam can see it from across the room, and then he stands up, starts pacing. “Wish Autumn hadn’t killed him because I’d love to about now,” Dean mutters, so low that Sam wonders if he imagined it. “Dean, you don’t have,” Sam begins, but Dean interrupts, “No, Sam. It’s your turn to shut up and listen, all right?” and Sam just nods, hunches into the blankets, tries to hold on to the warmth before it slips away. 

“Dad and I went down there about a year after you went to school, a couple weeks before Hallowe’en. He’d kept in touch with one of the elders and the guy called us up and said they had another unhcegila, could we come down and take a look. Adam was younger then, apprenticing with the shaman. His parents were dead, killed by a real unhcegila in the Dakotas and Adam’d been living with an aunt and uncle before they shipped him off to other relatives in San Xavier. He didn’t like it down there, in the desert. Missed the mountains,” Dean adds, and Sam can’t help but be fascinated by the way Dean’s walking, coiled and ready to spring, talking with emotion it’s obvious he wishes he didn’t have. 

“When I met him, he was a whiny little bitch and I hated him, but he came on the hunt and nailed the sucker with a crossbow.” Dean pauses and Sam wonders if Dean’s thinking what he is, that the unhcegila might have been a person Adam had ritually converted. “The Tohono O’odham had a bonfire that night and the shaman let Adam lead the ceremony. He was,” Dean stops, and Sam says, “He was beautiful,” because he can imagine that face, that glossy black hair, lit by fire from within and without. Dean looks at him, considers, then nods. “A punk ass kid who could hunt and who looked like that, who had a, a presence,” Dean says, and Sam remembers that presence, how he hated it, hated Adam from the first moment and wonders if it’s any surprise that his instincts come out so skewed when Dean’s involved. 

“We fucked that night, Sam. It’d been so long since I’d been with a guy and he knew all the right buttons to push, y’know? Dad and I stayed in San Xavier for a week once the unhcegila was dead and Adam and I, well,” Dean coughs, rubs his cheeks and Sam’s not stupid, he gets it. Went at it like rabbits, he’s guessing, and with that look Dean’s wearing, now sitting down, Sam doesn’t think he’s wrong. “I didn’t want you to see him like I see him,” Sam eventually says, quiet, picking at a rip in one of the blankets. He’s watching Dean without looking like it, so he sees the look Dean gives him, the incredulous stare of disbelief, and hears the same in his voice when Dean says, “Sam,” stopping to shake his head, like what Sam’s just said is unthinkable. “Sam, he tried to kill you. So he and I fucked, but dude, that doesn’t mean anything. You’re my brother. You’re the only family I have.” 

Sam nods, looks down at the blankets, and Dean sighs. “Swear to God, you tell anyone about this, I’ll put Nair in your shampoo again,” and Sam looks up, confused. Dean gets up, walks over, and crawls under the pile of blankets and quilts, pulling Sam down and then curling around him. “Dean?” Sam asks, confused, but Dean only says, “Nair, Sammy. Now shut up and get some sleep.”


	5. Nut

Sam doesn’t say anything to anyone, Dean kicks his ass when they spar, and, two weeks later, Sam is still waking up every night, two and three times a night, the dreams settling into his mind and clinging to him, even when he’s awake. He’s cold all the time, though neither Jeannie nor Dean think he feels any colder than normal, and every time he hears a howl or sees a cat, he loses control of his power, sets things rattling where they sit or stand or hang. 

When he looks in the mirror, the bruises on his face have faded a little bit more but the circles under his eyes are growing deeper, darker, and the look in his eyes, it scares him. Dean’s not looking much better, still connected to Sam’s subconscious, waking up when Sam does, dreaming what Sam dreams. They try and work themselves into exhaustion, practice and run all morning, help Jeannie fix up the house all afternoon, go for night-time target practice, but Sam still has nightmares and neither of them can relax. 

It takes three nightmares in four hours, three panicked gasps as Sam’s eyelids open and he reassures himself that he’s safe, that he’s here, in Wyoming, thunderstorm outside, before Sam swings his feet out of bed and faces Dean. “Please don’t make me talk,” Dean says, groggy, his eyes still closed and not moving. “I’ve run out of stories.” Sam nods, though Dean’s not looking, and gets up, carries a blanket with him, sits down two seconds later on the edge of Dean’s bed and thinks that if the situation was any different, he’d be laughing at how ridiculous Dean looks, eyelashes caked together, lips dry and cracked, a line from the pillow down one cheek. 

“I won’t make you,” he says, then takes Dean’s hand in his, holds it, and waits for Dean’s muscles to relax, to lose that stiff feeling Dean gets every time Sam’s near him. “I’m sorry, I just,” he says, but doesn’t let go, and Dean exhales, scoots over in silent invitation. Sam lays down, wraps himself in the blanket, and falls asleep, feeling like he’s seven again. It’s the first solid six hours of sleep they get since this whole mess began. 

\--

Jeannie eyes them when they stumble down for a very late breakfast but doesn’t say anything, just gets out the milk while Dean gets coffee and Sam stares at the toaster. “You need bread,” Dean says, after he’s shoved a cup in Sam’s hands. “First you put the bread in the little slots and then you push the button down.” Sam’s eyes flick to the coffee then back to the toaster. “Knew that,” he mutters, and Dean says, “Well? Make the damn toast then, you idiot. I’m hungry. And stop staring at the coffee, you’re making it nervous.” Dean goes to sit down at the table and falls into the chair a little too heavily, and Jeannie looks between them, then at Sam, before she rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, _honestly_.” 

Sam gets ushered to a chair, still looking at the mug as if he doesn’t quite trust the contents, and she bustles around fixing the toast and cutting up some melon. “You two better shape up,” she tells them, sliding the food on to the table and watching the delayed reaction that provokes. “Missouri’s coming to visit and she isn’t happy.” Dean looks up at her, and Sam watches as Jeannie nods, sour frown on her face, then Sam ducks his head and stares some more at the coffee, the rain hitting the kitchen window a nice, soothing backdrop. 

\--

Missouri is furious when she arrives and Sam, stripping the banisters on the stairs and sanding them for re-painting, can’t figure out why. Dean’s in the next room over and comes into the hallway when he hears the door slam, leaning back when she gets right in his face. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Dean Winchester, but,” she manages to say before Jeannie emerges from the hallway, getting Missouri’s attention. She turns to Jeannie and Sam almost flinches at the disgusted look on Missouri’s face as she points at Jeannie and says, “And you! Linking that boy up when you know good and well what he’s been thinking about. Letting them,” she stops, seeing that Dean’s moved to where Sam’s standing, hands gripping the banister, close in case Sam needs the physical contact or protection. 

Her eyes darken and she glares at Dean. “Taking advantage of that boy when he’s all tore up. It doesn’t bear thinking about.” Sam has no idea what Missouri’s talking about, but Dean and Jeannie must because they’re just taking it from her, and he’s just about ready to ask if someone would please clue him in when his head splits open and the crack down the middle, agonising pain, pulls him into a vision. 

\--

Sam’s gone over a month without a vision, nearly the longest since his power broke, and the pain is excruciating, he’s almost forgotten how much it hurts. It doesn’t help that he’s fighting it as it’s taking him over, fighting the fall into flames he hasn’t seen in his dreams lately, one more thing that the nightmares have chased away, fighting the slide into the visions, fighting against the truth of what they’re showing him. The first glimpse of sand makes him start screaming and as much as he wants to close his eyes and wake up, he can’t, trapped. 

_A little girl, with braided-back pigtails and in jeans and sneakers, one of those bunny t-shirts with a snarky slogan. His vision zooms in on her face first, laughing and sticky with chocolate, then moves out. He watches her run up a dune, a wide, wind-covered plane of sand, then tumble back down towards her family, mother, father, two younger sisters, and she falls into a pile of sand and never comes out._

\--

When Sam opens his eyes, he’s kneeling on the floor, Dean gripping one hand with Dean’s other on Sam’s back, rubbing slow circles. “It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean’s saying, and Sam nods when he’s swallowed his bile, looks up. Jeannie begins to say, “Sam, you know you only,” when Missouri cuts her off. “Sam, you come with me back to Lawrence. We’ll get this all straightened out, your dreams and your visions both.” His head’s pounding out the rhythm to every song ever written all at the same time, and the only thing keeping him steady is the death-grip he has on Dean’s hand and the physical closeness of his brother. “Missouri, what?” he asks, unable to say more, and her expression softens, looking at him. “Come with me, Sam, and we’ll get you back on track.” 

Sam chances a look at Jeannie, who’s staring at Missouri in disbelief. “Missouri, you can’t be serious,” she says, sounding dazed, and Missouri ignores her, focused on Sam. “But, but Dean and Jeannie,” Sam says, and Missouri’s eyes harden in a way that Sam can’t ever remember seeing before. “It’d be better if you left now, Sam. The things I’ve seen,” and Sam says, “Visions? You’ve started having visions?” and Dean, next to him, tied to him and so close, tenses, the hand rubbing slow circles of comfort on Sam’s back missing a beat. Missouri shakes her head and Sam’s lost, confused, fighting the pull toward unconsciousness. “You need to leave, leave this house, leave them” Missouri says, clearly, too clearly, and now Dean’s just crouched there, not moving, not breathing.

“Dean?” he asks, and Missouri shakes her head, and Sam murmurs, “ _Christo_ ,” despite the wards all over the house, because Missouri must be crazy or possessed to think that he’d ever leave Dean, not when it almost killed him to do it once before, not when Dean’s all he has left. Missouri says, “Sam, I’m not possessed,” and Sam stands up, Dean steadying him, before looking at her, really looking at her, and seeing care, concern, and revulsion in her eyes. He needs to sit down, lay down, sleep for a week, maybe a month, but it’s like she’s begging him with her eyes, so he says, “’m not leaving Dean, Missouri, and Jeannie’s been helping. It’s not their fault I’m a mess,” and tugs Dean up the steps, taking him away from that look Missouri’s wearing and giving Dean something else to focus on, because they both know very well that Sam shouldn’t be anywhere near stairs right now. Missouri calls out, “You get in touch if you need me, Sam, no matter what anyone else says, you hear?” and Sam gives her a thumbs-up over his shoulder. 

Missouri and Jeannie start yelling at each other about something being unnatural, wrong, but when they get upstairs to their room, Dean helps Sam, shaking like a leaf in the face of an oncoming tornado, into bed and asks, “What was the vision about?” It’s a relief to say, already half zoned-out, “Something on the sand dunes. Not today, it wasn’t raining. Maybe tomorrow? There was a little girl, she fell and didn’t get back up. Dean, what was Missouri,” and Dean interrupts, says, “Sam, you need to rest. You’re making me dizzy and I need you in good shape if we’re going after something in the dunes. There was something in the paper last week about some other kid disappearing,” and Sam murmurs, “Sorry. You’re right. Stay?” There’s a pause, and then Dean says, “Yeah, ‘course.” As Sam falls asleep, he hears Dean pull the chair next to Sam’s bed, feels a dip in the mattress as Dean puts his feet up, and smiles a little when Dean starts humming Metallica. 

\--

Sam wakes up and looks around. He’s alone in the room and begins to panic, feels cold and lost, trapped under a pile of blankets, and he kicks them off, getting his feet tangled in the process, starting to panic until Dean opens the door, comes barrelling inside. “Sam, it’s all right, I’m here, just went downstairs for some aspirin.” He drops the capsules on the nightstand and sits next to Sam, knees bumping, one arm flung around Sam’s shoulders as Sam tries to calm himself down. “I’m sorry,” Sam says, “I’m sorry I’m such a spaz, this is pathetic, I know,” and Dean cuts him off, says, “At least you’re not vibing everything. That’s progress.” Sam snorts, and Dean sighs, “Sam, I’m only going to say this once, but you are not pathetic. You’re my brother and I’d do, will do, anything for you, even if it’s girly crap like holding hands, okay? Just, you know, if we can not do it in public, that would be better, because it’d really screw up my game.” 

Sam laughs, one of the few, honest laughs he’s given the past month, and it makes Dean break out into this grin that’s so bright, Sam’s tempted to close his eyes against it. He feels better, though, somehow, enough to ask, “So, do you think it’s a sand demon? You said there’ve been others?” Dean moves away, but not so much that Sam could forget his brother’s there, and says, “Let’s do some research, geekboy. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours and piling you in books should make your headache so much better,” and Dean goes off on a tangent about how normal people’s headaches get worse when they’re up to their elbows in books, not better, which just goes to proves that Sam’s an alien or something, except if he _is_ an alien, then he’s a pretty lame alien. Sam just smiles and follows Dean downstairs.


	6. Osiris

Sam looks around for Missouri, tries to see if he can sense her anywhere nearby, but he doesn’t, can’t, and Jeannie’s eyes look strained, defensive, so he doesn’t press the issue, goes with Dean into the living room. Jeannie pulls out the papers from last week and dumps them in front of Sam and Dean, both of them sprawled out on the living room floor. Sam has the laptop open and is already checking his favourite sites for any mentions of a sand demon and he raises an eyebrow at the pile. “I’ve been saving them,” Jeannie says, and Sam looks at Dean, who looks back, and they share a moment of perfect understanding. “How long has this been going on?” Sam asks, and Jeannie sits on the couch, tucks a few errant strands of hair behind her ear. “There was a girl last week, but before that, nothing. Not as long as I’ve lived here.” Dean asks, “Anything strange lately?” and Jeannie exhales, thinking. “There’s a black spot downtown, very vague. Some of the other psychics have noticed it on the dunes but I’ve never felt it. It might be related, but there’s no guarantee.” Sam shakes his head, says, “A black spot, Jeannie? A demon?” 

“Demon,” Dean says, thoughtfully. “I bet no one’s out on the dunes right now,” and then he looks at Sam and says, “You up to a field trip or am I leaving you here to research?” Sam stands up, gives Dean a half-smile. “No way I’m letting you go by yourself.” The thought of going out on the dunes isn’t all that exciting, surrounded by all of that sand, but no one says anything when Sam loads up with Holy Water and crucifixes as well as a few weapons before leaving. 

\--

By the time the Impala coasts to a stop in the parking lot of the Killpecker Sand Dunes, twenty minutes later, Sam’s getting a little more nervous. The smile he gives Dean as they get out of the car into the drizzle is thin-lipped, tight, but he takes it as a sign of progress that nothing inside of the car is rattling or floating. Dean tosses him a flashlight and they take off, hiking across the dunes. At first, Dean leads, but then something pricks at Sam’s power and Sam pauses, looks toward the north. “You picking something up?” Dean asks. “Because, dude, I’ve never felt _that_ come from your mind before, and if it’s not something related to this demon, can you stop?” Sam looks at Dean, who just says, “What? It itches.” 

Sam snorts, then cracks his neck, eyes flitting around the dunes. With care, he lets down one layer of the barriers around his power and blinks as his eyes get used to seeing everything real, physical, overlaid with the silver-dust of his power. Jeannie and the other psychics are right, he can see a black spot over the dunes to the north, can feel it like a thrum in the back of his head. “It’s over there, whatever it is,” Sam says, gesturing his flashlight north, and Dean replies, “Well, all right. Guess we’re heading that way.”

Sam guides them and then they’re not two yards from the spot but all they can see is sand. “Not to make a big deal, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam cuts him off with an irritated huff, “I know. Its right here, I don’t,” and then his power-enhanced sight catches a glimmer of something in the wet sand. Sam crouches down, dumps a bottle of Holy Water on the exact spot, careful not to let any fall onto his own skin, making an impressed face when whatever’s half-buried in the sand starts hissing and smoking. Dean moves across from Sam, gun and flashlight trained on the spot as Sam reaches in and pulls out a knife, the blade as dull as the half-rusted handle. Sam runs his fingers over the handle, dislodging the clumps of sand sticking to it, and frowns. “The handles been runed,” he says, holding the knife in the flashlight’s beam and trying to study it more closely. “The blade, too.” Sam looks up at Dean who shrugs, says, “Summoning tool? Or an anchor? Think it’s safe to take back to Jeannie’s?”

It’s a good question and Sam’s not sure; it’s still glowing black in his vision but the Holy Water had some effect on it. Dean must pick up on Sam’s hesitation, either through the link or due to years of hunting together, because he pulls a spare bullet out of his back pocket, rock-salt, and hands it over. Sam rubs the salt all over the knife, murmuring the words of a binding ward, and then blinks, puts his power back deep inside his bones, because the glow is gone, the purpose of the runes and inscriptions either neutralised by the salt or kept tight by the ward. 

As they leave the dunes, Dean looks over at Sam and says, “You did good, geekboy.” It’s a simple sentence and Dean looks away as soon as he’s said it, watching the slick roads, but Sam has to hold back a smile. 

\--

Jeannie’s got a room in the house prepped for spellwork, and Sam and Dean head there as soon as they get back, soaking the knife in Holy Water again before rubbing it in a salt-and-sage mixture. Sam’s hair is damp, sticking to his skin, and both his clothes and Dean’s are soggy, not quite drenched, definitely not dry, but they need to find out the blade’s origins before they can think about leaving it alone. That means taking turns, and Sam convinces Dean to go first, it isn’t easy but he manages somehow, and when Dean’s gone and Sam’s alone, Sam studies the runes carved in the knife, sketches what he can see and feel onto a piece of paper. He’s got one side down before Dean comes back, and Sam’s not surprised when Dean whistles, looking around Sam at the rough drawings. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s a summoning spell for a free-will demon, isn’t it?” Dean asks, and Sam nods, adds, “That’s not even the worst part. All of these other carvings? They’re in Hebrew.” Dean groans, moves across the room and leans against a waist-high counter, folds his arms across his chest. “I hate dealing with djinn. D’you remember that one we had, where was it, in Ohio? Kids think anything that comes out of a lamp’s some Robin Williams knock-off, and then boom, chemical fires and riots at the toy store.” Sam, studying, the rune he’s just sketched onto paper, shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s going to be that kind of djinn, Dean. The inscriptions aren’t the same.” 

Dean frowns, asks, “Not the same?” and Sam’s expression says that he’s thinking for a few seconds before he shakes his head again. “I need to check some books and if this was what caused the girl to disappear, I’ll have another vision, maybe soon. The djinn’s still out there, we’ve only found its summoning tool.” With every word Sam says, Dean’s expression gets darker, until he’s practically glaring at the knife in Sam’s hand. “Go change,” Dean says, and Sam leaves when it’s clear that Dean isn’t going to say anything else. 

\--

On the way back to the room, the knife, and Dean, Sam detours through Jeannie’s library and grabs a copy of _The Nights_ as well as an old edition of the Koran. Sam’s not surprised to find them without any trouble, most hunters or those associated with hunters have copies of every religion’s major texts, and Sam knows Jeannie has a fondness for stories, but he’s a little taken aback to see an old publication of _Florville and Courval_ stacked on the same shelf. With a frown, Sam takes the two books he came in search of and grabs the laptop, heads down the hallway and into the warded room, where Dean’s finishing sketching out the runes. Sam looks over his brother’s shoulder and studies the runes before moving to the other side of the table and setting down the laptop to one side as he starts flipping through _The Nights_ and eventually finds the “Story of the Envier and the Envied.” 

“Here it is,” he says after a few minutes, and Dean looks up, listens as Sam reads, raising an eyebrow when Sam says, “ _And taking a knife on which were engraved Hebrew characters, drew therewith a circle in the midst of the hall and wrote there in names and talismans, and muttered words and charms._ And then the djinn came and she shape-changed to kill it, I guess. But that’s definitely a summoning knife, the runes are all kabbalistic and it’s been used, since the Holy Water reacted to it, which means the djinn’s free and influencing someone.” 

Dean sighs, leans down to put his elbows on the tabletop and says, “So we have to banish the djinn and exorcise the summoner.” Sam shudders, turns through _The Nights_ after marking the page he’d just read from. “Do you remember how to cleanse the summoner?” he asks, not looking at Dean, who says, “Yeah, it’s,” before stopping, breathing, going on more slowly. “We’ll have to find a black cat with a white spot on its tail, pluck seven hairs,” and Sam nods, taking his own deep breath. “Well, Sam, you did fine with the sand dunes, you’ll do fine with the cat, once we find one. And hey, when this works, maybe we can head north for the winter, whaddya say?” 

Sam looks at his brother, says, quite calmly, “I hate you.” Dean’s laugh follows him out of the room and down the hallway, in search of Jeannie. Still, once he’s out of Dean’s eyesight, Sam shakes his head and lets out a tiny smile. “North. Sure. Why the hell not?” he mutters, and detours towards the kitchen when he hears Jeannie singing.


	7. Isis

_A little girl, with braided back pigtails and in jeans and sneakers, a tank-top and a white knitted sweater. She’s laughing, holding a popsicle, her parents watching her, two younger sisters playing. The vision seems torn, like it doesn’t know where to go, and as the noon siren goes off, the girl chokes on the popsicle and flames cover the vision and the girl dies._

\--

Sam opens his eyes, stares at the ceiling. “Vision?” Dean asks, and Sam, puzzled, turns his head and picks his brother’s eyes out of the dark room, says, “How’d you know?” Dean sits up, says, “Your subconscious goes blank. It’s like you’re not even there. What happened?” Sam laughs, a little noise of amazed shock, and says, “Death-by-popsicle.” At Dean’s silent look that Sam can feel, halfway across the room, Sam sits up and pulls his knees up, says, “I’m not making this up. The same girl as the last one. She choked on a popsicle and died.” Dean still hasn’t said anything, so Sam looks at his brother again and says, “Dean?”

“No, I heard you. I just, they _melt_ ,” Dean says. “It’s, like, impossible to die because of a popsicle. Which means there’s definitely some crazy djinn out there and the person its persuading has, what, a vendetta against this kid? Did you get a time?” Sam thinks back, says, “Noon. The siren went off just as she died.” Dean sighs and Sam knows exactly what that means; he looks at the clock, sees that they have nine hours to either exorcise the demon and its summoner or the girl might die. They’re both tired, and it’s the early, early hours of the morning, and the only leads they have are a knife used in the summoning process, locked inside of a spell-warded room, and a book of stories. This is not exactly the best situation to be in, but, then again, they’ve been in worse. 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, testing the walls around his power, and then he stops, looks at Dean. “We have the knife. We can recharge it, use it to summon the djinn to us, inside of a circle, and, I dunno, under a Devil’s Trap? It’s just a demon, after all, and we’ve dealt with demons before. If we banish the djinn, it won’t be able to kill the girl, and we’ll have more time to figure out who originally summoned it, right?” Dean’s nodding, the light from outside outlining Dean’s body just enough for Sam to see the action, and then Dean says, “It might work. If we need to put a Trap somewhere, though, we need to get started on it now—it took two hours to get the last one drawn and recharging the knife’ll take four or five hours, at least. I’ll go wake Jeannie up and ask her what room we can paint, and you, you go find the paint.” 

Dean pauses once he stands and says, “You all right with this?” and Sam knows Dean’s talking about more than the quick division of labour, so he takes a moment to think before saying, “Yeah.” Dean leaves and Sam gets out of bed and he’s dressed and halfway downstairs before he realises that he didn’t have a nightmare while he slept. 

\--

Jeannie’s house is quiet and dark, and comfortable as well; Sam’s getting used to being here the same way he got used to being at Missouri’s when his power first broke. Being around people who know, who understand, who he doesn’t have to pretend for, is its own addiction, and its made that much better by having Dean there. As Sam lets down the wards on the spell-room, inhaling again the curious aroma that lingers everywhere in Jeannie’s house, angelica, sage, lilies, cookies, security, he wonders how Dean’s coping with all of this, with nearly dying because of Sam’s stupidity, with having such a freakishly psychic brother, with being linked to Sam’s mind, feeling what Sam feels, and then Sam gets smacked in the back of the head. 

“Dude, people three states away could hear you thinking,” Dean says, and then adds, “There’s a room in the basement Jeannie says we can use, unless we’re set on burning the demon out, in which case, we get the shed.” Sam nods, rubs the back of his head, and piles his arms up with chalk and paint before heading for the basement. 

\--

Angle, seventy degrees. _Dirigere et sanctificare, regere et gubernare dignare, Domine Deus, Rex caeli et terrae_. Circle, one inch thick borders. _Hodie corda et corpora nostra, sensus, sermons._ Alef, lamed, final mem. _Et actus nostros in lege tua et in operibus mandatorum tuorum._ Scorpion, tail pointing northwest. _Ut hic et in aeternum, te auxiliante._ Red, green, gold, sky-blue. _Salvi et liberi esse mereamur, Salvator mundi._ Keter, da’at, tif’eret. _Qui vivis et regnas in saecula saeculorum. Amen._

\--

The last rune gets painted and a shockwave of power ripples out of the Trap. Sam’s not expecting it, so he clings to the stepladder and watches as power floods the ceiling and the walls, licks at the floor before receding back into the lines and curves of chalk and paint. “I’ve never seen a Trap do that before,” Jeannie says from the doorway, behind Sam. He didn’t know she was there, too intent on getting the Trap perfect, and so when he looks back and sees Dean standing there as well, he hops off of the ladder and looks up at the Trap, avoiding looking at either of his audience. “It shouldn’t,” Sam says, “they’re not supposed to,” and he frowns, eyes tracing over the words and the scorpion to make sure everything’s right.

“No one’s tried making one with power and faith before,” Dean says softly, and Sam looks at his brother then away again, quickly, unable to meet whatever look is in Dean’s eyes, whatever it means. There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence before Dean says, in a more normal tone, “Sam was in some sort of trance, a meditative state, but his power was working. His subconscious felt,” Dean pauses, then says, “smooth, but with that itch.” 

“It’ll hold,” Sam says. “Once we lay down a circle and summon the djinn, it’ll hold. How’s the knife?” and he’s perhaps too relieved when the focus of attention goes back to Dean, away from Sam. “Laying in moon-purified water for another half hour or so. Once the binding wards broke, it didn’t take long for the paths of the inscriptions to return; now all we need to do is raise the power back up. Shouldn’t take more than another hour for that,” and Sam looks at his watch, sees he’s been working on the Trap for nearly three hours, no wonder his arms hurt. Dean seems to understand, because he says, “No time record, but I think it’ll be worth it in the end. I mean, more power’s always a good thing, right?” Sam looks at Jeannie and then smiles, shaking his head at Dean as he walks past, intent on getting some coffee. “What?” he hears Dean ask, as Sam’s halfway up the stairs. 

\--

An hour and a half, and a pot and a half of coffee, later, Sam and Dean are back in the basement room, a circle of salt and sage outlined on the floor, directly mirroring the outer boundaries of the Devil’s Trap. Dean’s holding a piece of paper with the words of an exorcism written on it and Sam’s got the charged knife in one hand and the words of a Persian conjuration ritual on a piece of paper in the other. It’s an hour past sunrise and everything’s ready, so after Dean nods, Sam begins reading. 

Sam’s understanding of Old Persian isn’t very good, but his pronunciation is exact, and everything happens as it should: smoke, contained by the circle, after the first section; the smell of sulfur and fire, after the second section; and when Sam says the last words of the third section, the djinn cracks into the circle, it’s inky black cloud subsumed into the shade-mirror of a smiling face. It laughs and keeps laughing, and as Sam circles around it, its eyes follow, always conscious of Sam, having dismissed Dean instantly. Sam privately wonders how long it’ll take the djinn to realise that it made a big mistake, doing that, but he doesn’t let his amusement show as he says, “Tell us who summoned you and who you’re influencing, and we’ll let you go back to the knife.” 

“You have power,” the djinn says, instead. “I will serve you, if you release the circle. I have always wanted a master worthy of the title. You, maguš, you would be.” Sam ignores the djinn, says, again, “Who summoned you and why do they want you to kill the girl?” The djinn laughs and Sam can feel his brother’s eyes on them, wonders what Dean’s picking up from the link. “The girl is nothing, entertainment. I’ve been bored and waiting,” and Sam says, “You’re lying. Who sent you after her?” because it’s true, the djinn _is_ lying, and Sam doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. “So much power,” the djinn says softly, eyes pinned on Sam, “and yet, so stupid.” 

Sam smiles, leans forward to say something, but the djinn dissolves, tries to pass over the circle, heading for Sam. Sam doesn’t move, because he trusts the Trap, and rightly so, since the djinn hits the edge and recoils, the smell of burnt metals filling the air as the djinn reforms and looks up. “Perhaps not so stupid, but not clever, either,” and then Sam’s ears fill with the sound of coyotes. He shudders, violently, and lets the outermost barrier on his power go, lets it flare up around him, calming him just enough to say, “Tell us, or you’re going back to hell.” 

The djinn spits blackened air at Sam, says, “I’ll see you there, maguš,” and then Dean’s reading the exorcism and the djinn disappears in a crack of pure electricity. Sam’s staring at the space where the djinn was and trying to calm himself enough to bring his power back inside, and, once he does, Dean’s hand is gripping his shoulder. “You all right?” Dean asks, and Sam says, “I’m going to be sick,” before he races upstairs to the bathroom. 

\--

The porcelain’s cool on his forehead, it feels good but almost too cold, and once he’s done retching, Sam stands up, flushes the toilet again, and rinses out his mouth with water. When he looks outside, into the hallway, Dean’s leaning against the wall, trying not to look worried and failing miserably; Dean looks Sam up and down before saying, “Let’s get you to bed. You look like a fucking zombie,” and Sam can only say, “Zombies don’t sleep,” before he’s bustled and hustled upstairs, tucked in and drifting off. The last thing he thinks he might remember is Dean standing above him, Jeannie on the other side of the bed, and her saying, “I can see how it’s easy,” before Dean says, “Yeah, well. Some people obviously can’t,” and then fire overtakes him. 

\--

He dreams of fire and he wants to cry in relief. The flames dance around him like they’re welcoming him home, and even though he grieves for Liz, will always grieve for Liz, this _is_ his home, his only constant; it was before her and it is now, here, in the fire, is where he belongs. The nightmare creeps in, but he’s so overjoyed, curling into the fire and hearing it purr around him, that he sees the nightmare as if it’s happening to another person, watching it through a veil of orange and scarlet, sees himself as if from a distance, being chased over a tundra by a flock of snapping cats, hears as if from a different room the laughter of a man who’s dead and already moved beyond. 

Sam sleeps for ten hours without waking, and once he’s told, he wants to weep for joy in relief.


	8. Set

He hasn’t had a vision, waking or dreaming, so as Jeannie and Dean are eating dinner and Sam’s breaking two pieces of toast into smaller pieces, he says, “D’you think it’s over? I mean, without the djinn, the girl’s safe, isn’t she?” Jeannie shrugs and keeps eating, but Dean thinks about it, puts down his fork and takes a long swallow of his beer. Sam watches, impatient, and then feels Jeannie’s eyes on him, so he looks at her, head cocked in unspoken question, and she smiles before casting her eyes back down to her plate. “I looked at the knife again while you were sleeping,” Dean says. “It’s old, Sam. I don’t think anyone here went through the trouble of carving it.” Sam frowns, says, “So, what, someone just happened to find an active summoning knife and that’s it?” 

Dean leans back, looks at the ceiling, says, “For the djinn, yeah. But we can’t leave the person who did the summoning alone. They’ve been marked, and things’ll just keep coming for them. We have to cleanse them, and you know what that means.” Sam’s stomach sinks as he nods and pushes the plate of ripped toast away. “Cats,” he says, and Dean nods, echoes him. “Cats.” 

After a moment, Jeannie asks, “How will you find this person? I don’t think you’re planning on knocking on every door ‘round here.” Dean looks at Sam, who thinks back on everything he’s ever read.” We could scry, that’d probably be the easiest way. Use the knife as a focus, pull out a map,” but Jeannie’s shaking her head. “Water under the dunes, the reservoir; scrying doesn’t work around here.” Dean asks, “What about a tracing spell?” and Jeannie shakes her head again before Dean says, “Right. Interference. Bet the EMF won’t work either?” 

Jeannie sighs and says, “We’ve never figured out if it’s ambient magic or a natural phenomenon, but that’s why I built the house out here. Organised magic as a whole is too finicky, it just won’t work. The only thing that does is assisted magic or personal power. The loa love it and we always have more than our fair share of hauntings, but,” she trails off, and Dean looks at Sam, frowning. “Personal power,” he says, and Sam doesn’t know exactly what Dean’s thinking, but with that look on Dean’s face, he doesn’t need to. “Dean, I really don’t think,” he says, before Dean leans forward and tells Jeannie about Sam’s trick at the dunes the night before. “Could he do something like that to find the summoner?” he asks, and Sam stops, gaping long enough to say, “Dean? I’m right here,” but Jeannie says, “I don’t see why not,” and then they’re both looking at him. 

“This is a bad idea on so many levels,” Sam says, but Dean starts to get this half-pouty, half-hardened look and Jeannie says, “If you’re in a circle, or near the Trap, nothing could attack you while you’re out-of-body, and Dean will be there just in case.” Dean’s quick to add, “Not that there’ll be a ‘just-in-case.’” Sam shakes his head, says, “No, not at all, this is not a good idea at all,” and then, somehow, an hour later, he’s taking supplies into the living room so he can lay a circle and send his power floating out over the city, looking for the summoner. “I hate you both,” he mutters, dropping a mixture of salt, sage, rosemary, and lavender in a circle, and Dean, following with a handful of vials and a gun, says, “No, you don’t. You’re just scared. Time to face your fears.” Sam wants to growl, to snarl, and argue, but Dean’s right, damn him, so he just takes the vials from Dean and sits down in the circle, facing the fire. 

Jeannie closes the doors and turns on all of the lights, and Sam breathes deep, calming himself. He opens the vial of consecrated oil first and makes a cross on his forehead, murmuring a Hail Mary as he does, then opens the vial of rose oil and smears that on his lips, following the Hail Mary with an old Celtic prayer of protection. A pentagram over the heart with crushed sunflower essence, and a vial of Holy Water poured over his hands, and Sam shifts before saying, “I’m ready.” Dean behind him, says, “I know. Go ahead,” and Sam doesn’t even wonder how Dean knows before he plunges into his power, spurred on by the sound of the fire. 

\--

Flames crackle around him, flood his feet and dart upwards, red and orange tendrils caressing his legs, arms, cheeks, before falling back into the ocean of fire around him. He asks the fire and it answers, leaping up to coil around him, crown him and cover him, and he drifts outside of his physical body, soul and spirit borne by never-ending waves of fire, upwards and outwards. He sees his body beneath him, a separate thing, feels weightless and formless, contained only by the limits of the flames, and he sees Dean tense, sees Jeannie nod, looking at _him_ and not his body. “Safe travels,” she says, and Sam turns, rises above the house, and sets his power loose.

It comes fast, the onslaught of information, power-senses moving too fast at first to comprehend, but something in his power, in the fire, shifts, and he understands. People, places, thoughts, impressions crash into his mind without overwhelming it as he moves slowly, combing the area for the summoner. He feels her long before he sees her, like a dark shadow in a room being lightened by a morning sun. She’s _there_ , then, in his sight, in his mind, and he hooks her, pulling a thread of power taut between them. He feels her shiver, tastes her fear, and he tells her that they’ll be coming, hearing as her teeth chatter together in a sudden chill. 

He focuses on the grounding elements, the slick-smear feeling of oil on his forehead, and his power returns to Jeannie’s, condenses and solidifies above her house. He falls through the roof, glides back into the living room, and Jeannie looks around, says, “He’s back.” It’s odd, hearing her voice like this, as if it’s coming from somewhere deep underwater, but when Dean says, “Sam?” it just sounds like home. He doesn’t need the other elements, not with Dean there; Sam dives into his body and possesses it with a pleased gasp. 

The gun’s safety clicks off and Sam, eyes closed, says, “ _Christo_. It’s just me, you can put the gun away.” Jeannie moves to stand in front of Sam and as he opens his eyes, she crouches, looking at him. “You only used the oil,” she says, and when Sam nods, she asks, “Did all of you return?” Sam says, “There’s a thread, connecting me to the summoner. I left a hook in her so we’d be able to find her,” and Dean says, “It’s _another_ woman? Son of a bitch. She’s not a necromancer, is she?” and then Dean pauses, as if he’s scared of setting Sam off into a funk or a broody mood that’ll last days. 

Sam just says, “No, she’s not,” feeling his power mourn, feeling his heart ache, and he’s tempted to cry, to wallow like Dean expects, but he can’t, he just, just _can’t_ , like he doesn’t have enough energy or doesn’t know if he’d be able to pull himself out of one if he started, and he’s beginning to think that Dean’s right, so he raises a hand and lets Dean pull him up. Liz is dead, and it was his fault, but Dean’s alive because of it, that’s his fault, too, and it hurts to say but he’d rather have Dean than Liz any day of the week, he’d rather have his brother than his pseudo-sister, he’d rather have this, Dean looking at him, worried and concerned, than a girl he emailed once a week, if he could remember, if they weren’t hunting, if he had more than ‘Hello, how are you?’ to say. 

This is Dean, this is his family, and he’ll always mourn Liz, but he couldn’t imagine a life where Dean wasn’t kicking his ass, spiking his clothes with itching powder, or giving him that taken-aback look that’s half-smile, half-question. Sam grins and asks Jeannie if there’s any food, he’s _hungry_ now, and for the first time in weeks, Sam think that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay. Still, before he follows Jeannie to the kitchen, he rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, reassuring himself that Dean’s still there, still breathing, still confused as hell. That, he knows, is going to be a hard need to conquer. 

\--

Jeannie puts food on the table, salads and fruits and cold pasta and Sam devours it, until even Dean’s looking at him askance, saying, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat this much since you were fifteen. Hell, you haven’t eaten this much in the past month, put together.” Dean looks at Jeannie, who says, wary, “Well, out-of-body experiences do wear a traveller’s energy but you’re right. Sam, slow down before you make yourself sick,” and Sam’s feeling full now anyway, ten minutes of ravenously shoving food in his mouth, so he stops and leans back in the chair with a content smile. 

“Sam?” Dean asks, and Sam wants to laugh, it’s bubbling up in his throat like the time he got power-drunk off of a werewolf, except there hasn’t been a werewolf and his fire’s curled inside of him, humming in drowsy satisfaction. “It fits better,” is all he can think to say, and Jeannie’s eyes light in something like understanding and then brim with tears before she leaves the room, covering her mouth. Sam frowns, then yawns, and as Dean’s standing there, indecisive, Sam stands up and says, “Go after her. I’m going to bed,” and then carries his dishes to the sink before leaving. 

Dean comes into the bedroom after Sam’s already brushed his teeth, changed, crawled under the covers. “Jeannie says your power’s happier, which means you’re gonna be fucking loopy until you can sleep it off. We still going after the summoner?” Dean asks, and Sam shifts, feeling the mattress cradle him half to sleep. “In the morning,” Sam murmurs, and holds out a hand. Dean moves to his side instantly, lacing his fingers in Sam’s without question. Sam smiles, closes his eyes, and as he’s lulled to sleep by flames, he says, half-conscious and half-aware, “You were right, Dean. You’re always right.”

\--

The astral’s supposed to be cold, he thinks, deep in an endless space, the starlit paths the only light, the only heat. He hears the paths’ songs and looks away, looks at the formless spirits coming his way. He stands there, fire fanning out above his head, all around him, and their fingers reach out for him, their hands search for him and cling for the split-second of eternity it takes Sam’s power to release them from the astral and send them on. More come, drawn from the far corners of the astral, and most reach for him and the finality his gift provides, though a few wait at the edges of the crowd. He can see their reluctance, the urge to surrender and the will to fight, and he smiles, says, “Tell me.” 

Others flit through the fire, spark and disappear, but the ones at the borders, the spirits too stubborn to go on, those trapped here, the ones who have stories to tell before they’ll give up, they tell him things: other hunts, other spirits, other demons, and they’re almost done when a different light bursts out of the paths, into the darkness, coming for him. Sam’s never seen that light before, doesn’t trust it, and the spirits flee as it gets closer, grows brighter, though Sam stands there, faces it. As it gets even closer, he sees flickers of action inside, glimpses of a snapshot image, and then the light hits him, and he fights before it swallows him whole. 

_pant, breathe, keep running. Cold, so cold, and broken, it hurts, blood pooling in hands and feet, leaving tracks for the coyotes scrabbling on the jagged ice following_

He pushes it back, fighting for breath, still in the astral. The light’s all around him, he pushes but it comes back, flash— _teeth tearing, sinking, ripping, sickly sweet smell of blood meeting air_ —fire and he screams, not out of fear but frustration. It won’t leave him alone, and no one’s here to help, he doesn’t know how to— _laughter, echoing on the ice, snap-crack-cackle_ —get it to stop, so the next time it swallows him, he lets it, lets the nightmare take him and once he’s inside— _out of breath, running, can’t get away, need to—stop. Fight. Don’t give in. Don’t run. Stand your ground. Fight back. It isn’t real._

_The ice is uneven, cracked under his bare feet, and his soles are sticking to it, blood freezing as it flows out. The animals circle around him, cats climbing up his body, coyotes brushing his legs. “It’s not real,” he says, and Adam walks out of a cloud of steam. He’s smiling, the witch’s eyes reflected in that unnatural gaze, and Sam shakes his head again, holding the stare. “It isn’t real.” Adam laughs and the ice pops, and he asks, “Is that a prayer or a statement?” It’s Sam turn to laugh. “Fact,” he says, and strikes out with his power. The world dissolves._

\--

Sam opens his eyes and sees Dean, sees Jeannie, sees the room beyond them spinning. He lets out one surprised bark of laughter, then pulls his power back under it’s barriers, smiling as it seems to whine, slinking petulantly back into his bones and blood. “Sorry,” he says, not at all apologetic, and Dean crosses his arms, says, quite calmly, “You knocked me out of bed, and that was before your subconscious started freaking out. Sorry isn’t gonna cut it, Sammy. What the _fuck_ happened?” Sam looks over Dean’s shoulders, at Jeannie, who holds her hands up and backs away, clearly leaving Sam to field this one by himself. 

“I was in the astral,” Sam says, “and somehow a nightmare found me. I tried to fight it but it kept coming back, so I let it take me and then, when I was inside, I fought it again, and then I woke up,” and he’s said all of that with one breath, so he catches more, inhale and exhale, and lets Dean have time to assimilate what Sam’s just said. “You fought your dream,” is what Dean eventually says, “and then you woke up, like that?” and Sam has to say, “Well, I used my, my gift, and it started dissolving, y’know, ‘cause fire and ice,” and Dean holds up a hand. 

“Sam,” he says, slow and soft, and Sam’s eyes narrow at the tone, “Sam. You dumped me on my ass, woke me up, and levitated the entire contents of the room except for you and _your_ bed, because you were talking back to your dream. Is that right?” Sam nods, doesn’t know what to make of Dean’s tone, and Dean rubs his temples, smiles, and says, “About fucking time you stood up for yourself. Now, is it safe to go back to sleep?”


	9. Nephthys

They go out in search of the summoner the next morning after Dean’s found a cat with the right colouring and Sam’s plucked seven hairs from its tail perhaps a little harder than was strictly necessary. Sam follows the thread he left behind and directs Dean, who drives with single-minded intensity. “You know anything about this chick?” Dean asks, when he turns off of Prairie Avenue onto Jade Street, a nice, completely average suburban street. “Age, for example?” Sam says, “No,” then says, “Well,” and thinks, pulls on the link and tries to force an image out of the fire. Nothing happens, just the feeling that the woman knows they’re coming, that she’s waiting for them, but not that they should be worried. “I don’t know anything about her,” Sam says, “except that she’s ready for us. It doesn’t seem like it’s threatening, but I don’t know.” 

Dean nods and then stops when Sam tells him to, in front of a cheery ranch-style house, no car in the driveway, flowerbeds perfectly manicured. When Dean checks his gun and then tucks it in his jeans, runs a hand over the vial of cat hair in his pocket, Sam doesn’t say anything, just reassures himself that his knives are still tucked around his body and bumps shoulders with Dean as they walk up the path to the front porch. Sam knocks and a moment later, an old woman with grey hair opens the door, looks out, then up, and says, “I didn’t think there’d be two of you, and so tall. Come on in, then; I made cookies this morning.”

She leaves the door open, expecting them to follow, and after a shared look, Sam enters the house, Dean close behind him. “Sit down, and I’ll just go get the cookies,” she calls out, and Dean looks around, says in a low murmur, “Twilight Zone? Because she is creeping me the fuck out. _Cookies_?” Sam shakes his head and sits down, letting out enough of his power to check the house—nothing sticks out, its all clear, normal, but he feels like he’s missing something, even though the woman, when she comes back in carrying a tray loaded with a plate of cookies, a pitcher of milk, two empty glasses, is clean as well. 

After Dean’s decided that the cookies are good and he’s happily shoving his face full of them, and Sam’s wondering if the milk’s spiked because it’s practically frozen, it’s so cold, the woman—Granny Jo, apparently—leans back in her chair and smiles, eyes twinkling as she says, “So, Elise is the next one, is she? I’d hoped it’d be her, she’s a darling little child.” Dean looks as lost as Sam feels, if not slightly more ridiculous, a line of cookie crumbs on his lower lip, so Sam valiantly refrains from rolling his eyes before he asks, “The next what?” Granny Jo’s smile grows brighter as she says, “Well, the next diviner, of course,” and Sam looks at Dean, who gives Sam the _Well, duh_ look in response. 

With no help readily coming, Sam turns his attention back to Granny Jo, completely okay with tuning Dean out as long as Sam can still see his brother. “Because she didn’t die?” Sam asks, and Granny Jo nods. “When they found me, why, they had to go through a whole handful of kids first, and my teacher, the diviner before me, she told me all about the man who came and talked to her. I knew you’d be coming, you see, though she never told me to expect two of you. I would’ve made more cookies if I knew.” 

“Another diviner came after you were chosen,” Sam says flatly, and the woman nods. He wants to tell her that he’s not a diviner, but he doesn’t know what he _is_ exactly, so he’s not going to quibble over semantics, instead asking, “And the knife?” For a moment, all Sam can hear is Dean chewing on a cookie, then Granny Jo tells them that the knife’s been passed down, diviner to diviner, for as long as Rock Springs has been a city, as long as there have been people living here. No one knows where the knife came from, or, at least, Granny Jo doesn’t, but it apparently always happens like this, children dying until the knife sends guardians or confirmations to stop the process, the child that lives becoming the next diviner. 

“Did you bring it back?” Granny Jo asks. “I’ll need to give it to Elise,” and this time Dean speaks up before Sam does. “We melted it down for bullets,” Dean says, and Sam knows his brother’s lying, because the knife’s back at Jeannie’s, sitting on a bed of salt despite the cleansing, but Granny Jo doesn’t. Her face drains of colour and she holds her heart with one hand, leans back as if struck. “Gone?” she whispers, and Dean says, “Yeah,” sharply, belligerently. 

For a long moment, she just sits there, and then it’s as if she’s possessed, leaping up out of the chair, eyes narrowed and fingers poised, ready to gouge out Sam’s eyes. Why she’s coming after him, he doesn’t know, but as he stands and grips her wrists, holds her away from his body, she hisses, “You are a diviner! You should have stopped him; you betrayed us all! You deserve death and damnation, you _traitor_!” The air in the room grows heavy, weighted, and then it’s spinning, knocking picture frames off of the mantel and curio, sending Granny Jo’s hair up like weaving snakes. “Stop,” Sam says, and he puts all of his will behind it, pushes the hook in her away, but she doesn’t move. “I call down curses and hexes on your head,” she goes on; “may the heavens rain vengeance on you and—”

The bullet hits the side of her head, louder than the noise it made leaving the chamber. She stops, wobbles, and purses her lips, her eyes roll back in her head and she says, “Burn, diviner,” before she falls limp, held up only by Sam’s grasp. He lets go and she tumbles to the floor, collapses in a scrambled pile of limbs, and Sam stares at her, says, “I already do.” Dean’s touching him, then, looking at him, and asking if Sam’s all right. “She can’t do anything. Couldn’t do anything,” Sam says, and Dean peers at Sam and says, “I don’t take hexes like that lightly,” and Sam half-smiles. “She didn’t put any power behind them, Dean. She didn’t have any power.” 

Dean pales, looks at the mess in the living room, and Sam looks around, sensing. “It was the house, not her. The knife’s been stored here for decades. The djinn influenced it, not the woman living in it. But she was definitely insane.” Dean still looks like he’s been punched, and it takes Sam a moment before he realises what he’s said, how Dean’s obviously taking it, so he says, “She was connected to it, though. If we’d let her live, who knows what might have happened? She wasn’t innocent; she killed a child, knowingly.” It takes a minute before a slow, hesitant smile creeps onto Dean’s lips. “Burn it all?” Dean asks, and Sam nods. “Better not take any chances.”

\--

The news, the next day, is still saying that it was an accident, the fire chief being quoted as calling it a kitchen fire, saying in an interview that Granny Jo had been cooking and something must have caught on fire. Dean thinks it’s hilarious, though his look turns pensive when he thinks no one’s watching, and Sam’s pleased that at least Dean doesn’t look stressed out, worried, just thoughtful. It’s been a while since Dean didn’t look haunted, bruised, and Sam’s smile fades as he thinks that he’s the cause of Dean’s stress, and Dean turns to look at him, still catching his breath from laughing. 

After a long stare, during which Sam starts to fidget, Dean says, looking at Sam but directed at Jeannie, “I think you can take the link off between us.” Sam gapes, says, “Are you,” and Dean just smiles. “I’ve had enough of your brain, Sammy. I’d like to have my head back to myself,” and Jeannie laughs as Sam pretends to scowl. “It’s _Sam_ , jerkface.”


End file.
